


How to Leave the Boy Behind (Without Having to Watch Him Go)

by Sandrene09



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Here’s the truth: it is impossibly hard to unlearn somebody after learning them in the most intimate of ways, so impossibly hard to look at someone and remind one’s self to include “ex” in “lover”.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Leave the Boy Behind (Without Having to Watch Him Go)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Smosh Appreciation Week, guys! For anon, who asked me to write something for number 20 (things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear). I am so, so sorry for taking so long.

Here’s the truth: it is so very easy to lose touch of what is happening in the real world.

As Ian walks with slow steps, his hands warm in his pockets and his eyes watching the slow setting of the sun, he lets his mind wander. He lets his eyes take in the way the blue sea reflects the red, orange, and yellow streaks of the sunset, lets his skin feel the warm sea breeze as his feet sink into the grainy sand with every step.

There aren’t a lot of people this time of day, or this day _period_ , considering that most people should be at work. Here, Ian is utterly alone with only the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore for company.

Even his mind, he thinks as he looks at the darkening sky above him, is unnaturally quiet, none of the usual clamoring for his attention happening. Instead, there is a welcome respite from the loudness of his thoughts, a calmness that has settled over him despite the warring emotions of sadness and anger that had overtaken him a while ago.

There is no more sadness or anger, only a sense of acceptance, and, dare he say it, _freedom_.

Ian abruptly stops walking, choosing to face the sea. He removes his hands from his pockets and widens his arms, his eyes closing slowly.

Right now, he needs to feel _something_. He needs to feel something other than the sense of acceptance and freedom he never asked for, needs to feel something other than that yawning emptiness in his chest, needs to feel something other than fear for what the future holds in store for him and Anthony.

He needs to feel in touch with reality again. He needs to feel the warm salty breeze against his skin, needs to hear the calming sounds of the waves rushing to the shore, the sounds of birds flying overhead. He needs to feel like time isn’t passing him by in this city where everything is rushed.

Ian opens his eyes and takes deep breaths. There’s no one here but him.

Ian sits down and removes his socks and shoes, eager to feel the sand against his skin. The sand is coarse. The wind is slightly cooler than before.

Ian lies down on his back, his head pillowed by his arms. He sees the red and orange streaks bleeding across the skyline, shades of dark violet and blue following suit, as if chasing the light away.

One by one, Ian’s thoughts return to him, the calmness that had settled over him slowly fading away like parting clouds subjecting him to the blinding light of the sun.

There are a lot of questions in his mind he wishes he could answer. He wishes he could say that he saw this coming, but to be perfectly honest, he did not.

And that, he thinks, is where he failed.

He should have known, should have seen the signs where Anthony, his best friend for more than a decade and his boyfriend for about three years, was concerned. He should have seen it all coming, like a dam filling after a week of heavy rain.

Here’s the truth: Ian lost touch with what was happening.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t foresee this happening, doesn’t know why he saw the signs only when Anthony was finally breaking up with him, telling him things he hadn’t known but should have.

Ian ignores the small voice at the back of his head telling him that he _had_ seen the signs, he had just chosen to ignore them, had chosen to bury his head in the sand where Anthony was involved.

There are seagulls flying above him in a diamond formation, and as Ian watches them fly away, he wonders about where they’re going to go and what’s going to happen to them.

Ian wonders about where he’s going to go and what’s going to happen to him.

-.-.-.-

Anthony breaks up with Ian in their apartment.

The sun is high in the sky, and Ian _hates_ it, because rain should be pouring down hard, never mind that it’s summer.

The silence is deafening. Anthony is seated across him, his eyes trained on the plate of food before him. Ian is staring into space, unwilling to believe what he has just heard. He is vaguely aware of the voice at the back of his head calling Anthony a coward for not even having the courage to look Ian in the eye as he breaks things off with him, but he ignores it in favor of letting himself acknowledge the truth, in favor of hearing the words “I’m sorry, but I’m breaking up with you” echo in his head. It’s a ricocheting bullet in a tunnel, and after a few seconds, it is sure to hit him square in the chest, puncturing vital organs and leaving gushing blood and wounds Ian is not sure he will be able to recover from in its wake.

Ian clears his throat. He blinks. He stares down at his plate of food like it contains all the answers Ian’s looking for.

In this moment, Ian feels…nothing. He feels like he’s floating out of himself, like he’s watching a three-dimensional movie instead of actually being the star.

He shakes his head and looks up again, determined to look Anthony dead in the eye.

“Why?” he asks, his voice shaky and just a little more than a whisper, the only thing about him at this very moment that is betraying just how he feels.

He feels numb, but broken. It’s most probably shock, he knows, but he does nothing about it, choosing instead to ask the most important question first.

Ian takes a deep breath. “Is there someone else?” he asks, and he _hates_ how it sounds broken, how his question sounds like a desperate plea for a negative answer. He especially hates how it sounds like he still cares, because he still _does_ care, and he would give anything to not be.

“No,” Anthony quickly says, looking up and finally meeting Ian’s eyes. His eyes look sincere.

“Then why?” Ian asks, because he still doesn’t _know_ , still doesn’t get it.

Anthony stands up and quickly walks away from the dining table, beginning to pace back and forth. “Because! I don’t know what I am or who I am anymore!” he says, and Ian can feel the frustration bleeding from his tone. He looks tense, looks ready to snap.

Ian remains in his seat and watches Anthony walk back and forth, silent. At this moment, he doesn’t think he can breathe properly, doesn’t think he can move.

After a few seconds, Anthony finally stops and looks at Ian, his eyes filled with something akin to _regret_. There is sadness there, too, and a little bit of anger, though Ian isn’t sure if it’s anger at him or anger at Anthony’s self.

Ian tries to ignore the sincerity he can still see in Anthony’s eyes. He can’t start thinking about Anthony still caring for him—that is a kind of torture he would rather not endure.

“Lately,” Anthony says, sounding slightly out of breath, “I feel like everything I am and everything I do is determined by you…by our job.”

It sounds like a dirty confession, coming out of Anthony’s lips like that, and maybe it is. Ian doesn’t quite know.

Anthony looks about ready to tear his hair out, his hands fisted at his sides, knuckles as white as paper. He’s looking for the right words to say—Ian knows this from the slight faraway look his eyes have, from the slight curl of his lip, from the minute creasing of his forehead.

Anthony takes a deep breath. “It’s like I can’t exist without you anymore,” he says, and his voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to say it out loud because saying it out loud would make it exist, would make it _real_. “I hate that I can’t be my own person now. It’s not just me anymore—now, it’s me _and_ you.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say. A part of him is glad that Anthony spared him the “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit or the “I need space” which could have substituted for the explanation Anthony just gave him, but another part of him is irrationally angry that Anthony hadn’t stuck to the usual reasons, to the usual bullshit lines because now, Ian has to finally face the truth that this has been going on for some time now, has been bothering Anthony before this day.

“I feel like I can’t exist without you anymore,” Anthony chokes out, “and this has been suffocating me for a long time now, and I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it anymore.”

There’s a pained look in Anthony’s eyes, but he pushes through.

Ian admires that.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t do it anymore.”

And just like that, Ian sees brickwork crumble. He feels as if someone just stabbed him in the chest with a dagger and is slowly twisting said dagger to inflict the most pain.

“I need to go,” Ian says in a soft voice. He doesn’t move, however, just continues to stare into space, trying to make sense of what Anthony has told him.

Anthony sits back down across Ian, his hand reaching over in an obvious attempt to take Ian’s hand in his.

Ian quickly puts both hands on his lap. Hurt streaks across Anthony’s face before it fades away.

“Please say something,” Anthony says, sounding sincere. Ian hates that. Ian hates that Anthony still sounds sincere because he doesn’t want sincerity, doesn’t want another reason for him to miss Anthony. He wants cold cruelty, wants numerous reasons why this is as beneficial for him as it is for Anthony.

Ian clears his throat before attempting to answer. “I—I’m sorry. I just. I think,” Ian says before shaking his head. He stands up and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opens them once again, he looks at Anthony, looks at his slightly disheveled hair and his sad brown eyes, and sighs. “I need to be somewhere else, I think. I need to go.”

Here’s the truth: Ian is too proud to say something as close to the truth—something as obviously vulnerable—as “I can’t be anywhere near you right now”.

Ian goes. He doesn’t slam the door on the way out.

-.-.-.-

Life, as it inevitably does, moves on.

More importantly, Ian and Anthony move on.

They don’t switch apartments. Instead, Ian volunteers to move out of what is now Anthony’s bedroom, putting all of his things in the guest room.

They may not be boyfriends anymore, but they don’t let that affect them more than it has a right to. After all, they were best friends and business partners before they became boyfriends, and they won’t let a failed relationship ruin everything else they’ve built for themselves.

Ian is determined not to let it become something more than what they are. He doesn’t want it to become some adjective used to describe the two of them, doesn’t want it to become more powerful than it already is.

So he works. He produces line after line of comedic genius, spends late nights at the office editing with Anthony, and acts as well as he could.

He thinks this is the best he has ever been, work-wise.

In the apartment, he and Anthony still move as seamlessly as they did before the break-up. Of course, there are still little slip-ups, snags in the abstract mosaic they’ve worked hard to create, but Ian tries his best to ignore them. He can’t, after all, let himself think too hardly about the various minutiae of Anthony that he used to be intimate with, can’t let himself imagine Anthony burying his face into the warmth of Ian’s chest in the mornings, just before he wakes.

He can’t let himself think about those, because it means that he misses them. And he would give anything not to miss them anymore.

Here’s the truth: it is impossibly hard to unlearn somebody after learning them in the most intimate of ways, so impossibly hard to look at someone and remind one’s self to include “ _ex”_ in “ _lover”_.

Ian, especially, finds it hard to look at Anthony and try to not notice the tiny things that he has come to love about him. He hates that he can still tell that Anthony’s in a good mood just by watching him cook, hates that he can still smell the cologne he used to be able to smell by pressing his nose to the junction of Anthony’s neck and shoulder whenever he hugged him from behind in the air of their apartment.

Ian has been robbed of the intimacy he so badly wants, and he hates that he aches over it, hates that he can’t seem to remove these thoughts from his mind.

In the privacy of his own room, however, he allows himself to wonder. He allows himself to think about Anthony, allows himself to ponder over if Anthony found what he was looking for after breaking up with Ian. He doesn’t voice these out loud, of course, but he does think about them despite knowing that thinking about them will do him more harm than good.

In the mornings, Ian tries to ignore the way Anthony’s still sleepy-eyed as he prepares to go for a run around the city. He tries to look at Anthony’s arms and not think about moments spent wrapped in them, tries to look at Anthony’s back and not think about mornings spent with Ian’s fingers mapping the curve of it.

In the evenings, Ian goes to bed and ignores the way the bed seems too big and too cold. He goes to sleep oddly missing the sound of Anthony’s teeth grinding together even as he sleeps, and wakes up in the middle of the night missing the heat Anthony radiated back then, when they were still pressed up together as they slept.

No matter what time or day it is, Ian tries to ignore the way his chest still aches with missing Anthony, tries to look at Anthony without rose-colored thoughts filling his mind. He hangs out with Anthony and the crew, and he has to remind himself not to casually take Anthony’s hand in his.

Little by little, Ian finds it easier to breathe.

-.-.-.-

It’s Ian and Anthony’s anniversary.

They don’t talk about the significance of the day as they walk around each other in the kitchen. They don’t talk about how they should be celebrating it instead of _mourning_ something as they drive to the office.

Joven, Mari, and Flitz give Ian looks from the corners of their eyes as shoot a Game Bang video. Wes, Sohinki, and David keep quiet.

All of them are just that little bit awkward, five-second pauses making frequent visits in their conversations. Their laughs are stilted, but they all ignore the cause, instead trying their best to look as unaffected as possible.

After work, he goes to a nearby bar with Mari and Sohinki. Mari and Sohinki look on worriedly as Ian downs beer after beer, but they don’t stop him.

They know he needs it.

After countless orders of beer, Mari and Sohinki haul him in the car and drive him to the apartment. Ian watches the city pass him by, watches blurry lights and moving people with unfocused eyes, before finally closing his eyes and just letting the minute vibrations of the car lull him to sleep.

Mari gently shakes him awake when they arrive at his and Anthony’s apartment building. He hears Sohinki say something along the lines of “we should’ve gotten Joven to come with us” as he and Mari walk Ian to the elevator, but he ignores the words in favor of closing his eyes.

Soon enough, they’re at the door. Mari rummages in Ian’s pockets for his keys as Sohinki struggles to keep Ian upright.

Ian opens his eyes. He knows what he’s going to see before he sees it—sees him.

Anthony’s in the doorway, a worried look on his face. His eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are wide as he takes in the sight of Sohinki barely managing to keep Ian from faceplanting on the floor. Immediately, he reaches for Ian, arms outstretched.

“I’ll take care of him,” Anthony says softly, his voice not allowing any arguments. His grip is strong on Ian’s arms, and as Ian allows his head to loll to the side, he smells Anthony’s cologne.

Ian closes his eyes. This is…something. He doesn’t quite know what it is, but it _is_. Anthony is slowly walking him into their apartment, his arms warm around Ian’s back, and Ian lets himself miss this. Ian lets himself miss the embraces he thinks he has taken for granted, lets himself hate this parody of a lovers’ embrace as his mind swims through his thoughts sluggishly, the alcohol affecting him more than he thought it would.

The moment the door closes behind Anthony, Ian removes himself from Anthony’s embrace and kisses him, his lips moving against Anthony’s as he tries to relearn Anthony’s taste.

Ian can already hear the various reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this, why they should step away from each other, but he doesn’t let himself ponder over them. He _deserves_ this, he thinks. He just needs this once. That’s all.

Just once.

Here’s the truth: it is insanely easy to live in a lie.

Anthony kisses him back, his tongue sliding over Ian’s, and Ian feels his heart pound in his chest, feels blood cells move lightning-quick through his veins. Anthony’s mouth tastes like vegan vanilla ice cream—something Ian knows Anthony only indulges in during times when Anthony’s sad about something—and Ian _knows_ that Anthony’s mourning _them_ as much as Ian is.

Ian chases the flavor with his tongue, chases the proof that it’s not only him who’s affected, as his arms caress every inch of Anthony he can reach. He maps out the hills and valleys of Anthony’s arms, the dip of Anthony’s lower back, the arch of Anthony’s ass. These are all the things he doesn’t think he’ll be able to touch again after this night.

Just this one night.

Ian is drunk on both alcohol and Anthony, drunk on the feeling of being able to have another chance to caress skin he has longed to touch for so long. He is drunk on the taste of Anthony’s mouth, tasting sweet and sorrowful, tasting like goodbye.

Vaguely, Ian is aware that he and Anthony are walking towards Anthony’s room, not one inch separating from the other in their need for closeness—for _intimacy_. Anthony’s hands are splayed open on Ian’s back, fingers digging into the fabric of Ian’s shirt. Despite Ian’s drunken state, neither of them bump into anything, their legs surprisingly synchronized in this little tango of theirs toward what was previously _their_ bed.

Anthony backs away from Ian’s lips, gasping for air. His hands deftly remove Ian’s shirt, tossing them somewhere, as he presses hot, burning kisses to the side of Ian’s throat. Ian feels fire burning in his blood, feels electricity shake his core with every touch of Anthony’s hands, with every press of Anthony’s lips, and he spares a thought for himself, wondering how he made it this far without _this_ , the slide of skin on sweaty skin, the glide of lips against lips.

Tomorrow, when all of this has been done, they will both return to what they previously were. There will be no kisses or touches, whether fleeting or not.

Ian tries not to mourn the loss of everything already. No. He _has_ to enjoy this, has to somehow live in the moment. He _can’t_ spoil this for himself.

He can’t.

Not too soon, he and Anthony are on the bed, Anthony on top of him and struggling to unbuckle Ian’s belt. They’re both shirtless, glorious skin on display in the darkness of Anthony’s bedroom, and Ian allows himself to miss this, the feel of this specific mattress beneath him, just like old times.

Anthony breathes against Ian’s shoulder, his hot wet breath making Ian’s hair stand on end. Ian clings on as Anthony finally succeeds in unbuckling Ian’s belt, his fingers immediately tugging open the buttons on Ian’s jeans. Ian gently bites on Anthony’s ear, relishing in the sound of Anthony’s broken moans. His hands wander, fingernails raking down Anthony’s back.

Ian _needs_ to leave a mark, _needs_ the reminder tomorrow that _this_ happened, that _this_ is real. He needs fingerprints on Anthony’s hips and fingernail marks on Anthony’s back, needs hickeys on Anthony’s neck, needs bite marks just beneath Anthony’s collar bone. Ian needs more than memories of things done in the dark and the bitter taste of alcohol and regret in his mouth.

Ian needs _this_ , his hands unzipping Anthony’s jeans and helping him kick them off as his lips claim Anthony’s once more, tongue darting in and tasting the moans stacking up in Anthony’s throat. He needs Anthony’s hands ghosting over his skin, hesitant to touch like a child in an art museum wanting to feel the texture of a marble sculpture, before they go in for the kill, grabbing and kneading Ian’s ass through the fabric of his boxer-briefs like a half-dead man in the desert finding the sea.

There is desperation. The air is filled with it, and Ian thinks he can choke on it, so thick and unyielding in the air. There is nostalgia, as well, though Ian isn’t quite sure whether or not he’s the only one who can feel it pressing down on them, pushing until it finds their bones and settles there.

Most of all, however, there is sadness. Ian can feel it in every kiss Anthony exchanges with him, can feel it as Anthony gingerly removes Ian’s boxer-briefs. Ian gasps out Anthony’s name as Anthony sucks a hickey on his inner thigh, and he is hit with how much he misses being able to say Anthony’s name in such a way, in a way that is overflowing with desire and need.

Anthony moves up and claims Ian’s lips with his, their tongues sliding against each other just like how they used to before the break-up, and Ian grips Anthony’s arms tight, his knuckles as white as paste.

It is Anthony who breaks off the kiss. “There are condoms in the drawer,” he gasps out, his voice sounding a little broken. “Do you still want to do this?”

“Yes,” Ian hisses as Anthony takes his nipple in his mouth, his tongue laving over the bundle of nerves. “Yes, oh _fuck_.”

Blindly, Ian reaches out for the nightstand, his hand searching for the little knob. When he finally finds it, he wrenches the drawer open and reaches inside for the condoms, grabbing three at a time before slamming the drawer closed. While he’s doing this, Anthony continues his assault on Ian’s body, his tongue doing _sinful_ things.

Ian mouths at the side of Anthony’s throat. “Please,” he says in a hoarse voice, handing the condoms to Anthony.

Anthony groans, a low guttural sound that makes Ian shudder all over. “We need lube.”

“Yes, yes, anything,” Ian blabbers, not caring anymore. All he knows now is that he _needs_ this, knows that he wants the flame in him sated, wants the earth-shattering bliss of coming apart in Anthony’s arms. His hand returns to the nightstand and grabs the bottle of lube there, quickly giving it to Anthony.

Ian watches the subtle play of Anthony’s muscles underneath skin, watches Anthony remove his briefs with quick fingers, watches the look of utter bliss make itself known on Anthony’s face as he gives in and takes himself in his hand, jerking off for a few seconds before stopping, panting loudly as he does so. Ian watches Anthony rip open the condom foil and roll it on, and he is struck by the need to touch him again, to take what is freely offered for just this night.

Ian kisses Anthony once more, his hands wide open on Anthony’s back. When they pull back, Ian breathes out, “slowly, please,” and Anthony gives him a small nod.

Ian can feel his nerve endings lighting up with pleasure, can feel heat pooling at the bottom of his spine. Anthony has always had this effect on him, and Ian is not surprised to find that he still does.

Anthony taps Ian’s hip. “Lift,” he says, and Ian wordlessly lifts his hips, allowing Anthony to place a pillow underneath. He closes his eyes and bites his lip as he feels one lubed finger circle the rim, getting the muscles to relax first before slowly sliding in.

They’re both silent, the air filled with nothing but harsh breaths and choked-off moans as they bring each other higher and higher. It’s a lot different to back then, when sex was filled with laughter and cheesy lines. Now, they’re both quiet, as if they’re afraid that the slightest bit of noise will shatter what they have created for themselves. When they speak, they speak in low tones, barely audible over the ringing in Ian’s ears.

Soon enough, there’s two fingers, and then there’s three. Ian knows that Anthony is taking his time to relearn the various nooks and crannies of him, and he can’t help but appreciate this more.

Anthony rubs at _that_ bundle of nerves, and a scream is wrenched from Ian’s throat, his eyes closing as he arches a bit. He has always been sensitive there, and he knows Anthony is smiling even though he can’t see him.

For a few minutes, Anthony continues to scissor his fingers inside, uncaring of the way pre-come is steadily leaking out of Ian’s cock, or the way Ian is mindless with pleasure and is about one slow pull away from the edge.

“Please,” Ian says in a soft tone, pleading, and he feels Anthony abruptly stop before retracting his fingers, leaving a gaping emptiness. “No, no, no, _no_ ,” Ian says, opening his eyes.

“Shh,” Anthony says, looking at Ian with an indescribably fond look in his eyes. “I’m here, don’t worry. I’m here.”

Ian watches as Anthony slicks himself up with lube before slowly slipping inside him, mindful of how Ian feels.

“You okay?” Anthony asks, his voice sounding slightly broken. Ian watches sweat make their way down Anthony’s temples, watches the tenseness of Anthony’s muscles as he struggles not to move.

Ian misses this.

Ian chokes down things like “I miss you” and “I wish we hadn’t broken up” and “I love you”, not wanting words to poison this delicate moment in time. Instead, he nods, a sigh making its way out of his mouth as Anthony slowly slides in further.

When they’ve both assured each other that they can take _more_ , Anthony slowly thrusts in, out, in, out, _in, out_. A steady stream of moans makes its way out of Ian’s mouth, low and private, something that will only be heard by the two of them.

Despite the burning need for them to reach the crescendo of this delicate symphony, they go slowly, allowing the fire to last a little longer.

Ian’s okay with Anthony’s choice to keep things slow. He doesn’t want it to end quickly, after all.

After this, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance to have this again.

When Ian comes, he sees stars behind his closed eyelids, feels fireworks light up his skin and bones. He groans the entire time, his hands gripping tightly onto Anthony’s shoulders, his fingernails biting into Anthony’s upper back. It’s not too long before Anthony comes as well, but instead of shouting Ian’s name like Ian expected him to, he breathes it out instead like a broken prayer of a sinful man.

Ian feels Anthony move away—presumably to throw the condom away and to grab a washcloth—and he immediately misses his warmth, his mere presence. When Anthony comes back, Ian feels cool cloth slide over his heated skin, feels Anthony lie down beside him, his arms immediately reaching for Ian and wrapping him in an embrace just like before.

Before he falls to the treacherous depths of sleep, he feels Anthony press a kiss to the back of his neck.

He thinks he hears Anthony say “I love you”, thinks he hears Anthony say “I never should have broken up with you”, thinks he hears Anthony say “I’m sorry”, but he pays them no mind.

He’s drunk, after all, and on the verge of sleep.

Here's the truth: Ian is afraid of what he will do when he allows himself to hope.

So he doesn't.

-.-.-.-

In the morning, they don't talk about what had happened the previous night.

Instead, when ian wakes, he allows himself one small moment to appreciate the feel of Anthony's arms warm around him, clutching him to his chest as if he's protecting him from some invisible entity. He allows himself to appreciate the way the back of his neck can feel every single inhale and exhale, allows himself to relish his time here, on top of what was once their bed, before focusing on the pounding headache, on the taste of death in his mouth.

He miraculously makes his way out of Anthony's arms without waking him up, sparing a moment to reign in the urge to vomit before quietly turning the doorknob and walking outside, closing the door behind him gently before heading to the bathroom.

Ian vomits in the toilet, leaning his sweaty head against the arm braced on the edge of the porcelain when he's done. He still feels dizzy, but he makes himself get up and gargle with awful LA tap water, wanting to rid himsef of that gross taste sitting in the back of his throat.

He walks to his bedroom with slow steps, careful not to aggravate his headache. He quickly gets under cool sheets, not wanting to expose his naked body to whoever might come in his bedroom later—Anthony, his mind helpfully supplies—and sleeps.

When he next wakes, he sees a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water on his nightstand. He also sees his clothes from last night folded on the foot of the bed.

There is no note.

Here's the truth: Ian doesn't know why he's hoping to see one considering that he wouldn't even know what to do or what to say if he sees a note.

-.-.-.-

The thing is, it happens again. It isn't a one-time thing like Ian assumed it would be. Instead, it becomes a yearly occurrence, becomes their own little way to celebrate—or, possibly, mourn—their anniversary. It's a death waltz, Ian thinks, a dance they do with one another, intimate and passionate and deadly with all the words they have left unsaid.

On their second anniversary after the break up, Anthony is the one who comes home drunk. Ian is helpless to resist as Anthony kisses him with both hands pressed tight to his face, helpless as one of Anthony's hands make its way to the back of Ian's head, fingers carding through his hair. Ian tastes regret and apologies in Anthony's kisses, but he tries not to think about them too hard, reminding himself that Anthony was the one who broke up with him, damn it, not the other way around. Ian is the one to thrust into Anthony this time, the one to revel in the sweet hot tightness. When they're both sated and tired, Ian lies down beside Anthony and lets him surround Ian with his arms, with his warmth.

Anthony murmurs "I still love you" and Ian freezes in his spot as he feels Anthony burrow his face closer. After a few seconds, Ian relaxes, because _of course_ Anthony's only saying that because he's drunk.

In the morning, they still don't talk about it.

By their third anniversary, neither of them pretend not to expect this weird kind of support system. They're not drunk when they kiss one another, not drunk when they moan out each other's name like a hallelujah. Anthony holds Ian tight in his arms that night. Ian pretends not to notice the way Anthony cries silently, pretends not to feel Anthony's tear falling on the back of his neck.

Ian pretends to be asleep when Anthony presses kiss after kiss against the back of his neck like apologies for all his wrongdoings, pretends to be asleep when Anthony says in a broken voice, " _come back_ ".

Here's the truth: Ian misses Anthony, but he doesn't dare say it because he knows it isn't the same for Anthony.

He just knows, despite the things Anthony's been saying, despite the fact that during these three years, neither of them date other people.

He just knows.

In the morning, they still don't talk about it. Anthony doesn't tell Ian things like "I miss you" and "I'm sorry" and "I love you". Ian doesn't give any hint that he heard what Anthony said the night before. They move on.

Here's the truth, though Ian doesn't know it yet: Anthony regrets their break up, regrets that he ended something the both of them cherished.

Ian doesn't know that Anthony still aches for him most of the time, that Anthony often looks at him with longing clear in his eyes. He doesn't know that Anthony hates the fact that he broke up with Ian because he felt that he couldn't exist without Ian, doesn't know that Anthony hates the fact that he even broke things off between them because it _is_ true, he feels like he can't exist without Ian, feels like a man gasping for air underwater whenever he sees Ian and is reminded that Ian isn't his anymore, and neither is he Ian's.

Ian doesn't know these things because Anthony is just as stubborn as he is, just as proud, just as _stupid_. Anthony doesn't want to back down, doesn't want to ask for ian's forgiveness because he just knows Ian has moved on, just knows that there is nothing waiting for him there anymore.

He just knows.

-.-.-.-

Here's the truth: sometimes, things that are expected to last just _don't_.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Smosh. I don’t make money from this. Title taken from Metric’s The Twist, which I obviously also don’t own.


End file.
